


(let me stay, i'm) lost in paradise

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Season/Series 01, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 21:39:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13280391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: Grant's in hell...if hell can come in the form of resorts, bikinis, and sunscreen.





	(let me stay, i'm) lost in paradise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SafelyCapricious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SafelyCapricious/gifts).



> Happy happy HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my dearest Mir!! I hope your day is absolutely specTACULAR and full of cake and presents and fun! For the second year running, this is not the fic I wanted to write for you, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! <3 <3 <3 <3

Grant knew from the very first briefing that this assignment was gonna suck. Spending a full month undercover as _himself_ in one of the cliché, touristy, faux-paradise “resorts” he’s always despised, without the freedom to openly carry weapons but _with_ a totally untrained partner? It was a recipe for frustration and disaster even before the actual _point_ of the mission was added to the equation.

And since the point of the mission is “coincidentally” running into his parents so he can start mending fences, the better to build a new, friendly relationship that will give him—and through him, SHIELD—access to their political connections…yeah. He knew from the start that he was doomed.

Now, though? Now he thinks he might actually be in hell.

Simmons is prone beneath him, all but purring as he rubs sunscreen over the warm, bare skin of her back. Every minute or so she shifts, snuggling deeper into the lounge chair and giving him a glimpse of her blissful expression in the process.

Yep. Hell.

“Mmm,” she moans— _moans_ , for god’s sake, like he’s not a red-blooded male who can’t help but think dirty things about that kind of sound. “That feels nice.”

Grant’s a _professional_ , damn it, so he swallows down the first three things he wants to say—all variations on an offer to make her feel even better back in their room. It’d fit their cover just fine, but in reality, Simmons is his teammate and partner, not his wife. The last thing he wants to do is make her uncomfortable.

So, with the kind of effort he usually reserves for walking on a broken leg, he summons up a light, teasing tone to say, “Admit it. You just wanted a massage.”

“Don’t be silly, Grant,” she says. From this angle, he can just make out the edge of the smile she buries in her crossed arms. “Sun protection is very important! The risk of skin cancer increases with age, and as a fair-skinned woman who freckles easily—”

He’s actually kinda curious as to just how many factoids on skin cancer she can offer up on a whim like this…but not curious enough to actually sit through a lecture. Thankfully, after several months on a team and two weeks in this vacation hell together, he knows _exactly_ how to shut her up: he digs his fingers into the skin beneath her shoulder blade, at exactly the right place to make her squeak, jump, and twist to slap his hand away.

“Something wrong?” he asks innocently.

Simmons narrows her eyes at him. “Don’t you dare, Grant Ward.”

“Dare what, Mrs. Ward?” he asks. Thanks to the tickling, she’s on her side now—bad, in that her bright blue bikini is _really distracting_ …but good in that it gives him a much better angle of approach. “Do… _this_?”

He’s moving slow, deliberately telegraphing his intent, but it’s still a surprise when she catches his hand before he can make contact with the ticklish spot at the curve of her hip. He can’t help but be pleased—obviously that work they’ve been doing on improving her reflexes is paying off—but his smile only makes her scowl.

It’s adorable.

“It’s not too late to divorce you, you know,” she threatens.

If they were really married, he’d kiss the tip of her scrunched-up nose; it’d break her scowl, make her laugh from the surprise and the cuteness of it, and be easily followed-up with a real kiss.

Since they’re undercover, he restricts himself to kissing her forehead, instead. Still cute—for the benefit of anyone watching—but way less likely to throw and/or discomfit her.

“That’s what you think.” When he stands, Simmons sits up like she’s being drawn along in his wake. “But I’ll leave you to court skin cancer in peace.”

The pout she aims up at him nearly breaks him. “You’re not going to stay?”

“Nah, I’m gonna go for a run. Meet you back in the room?”

“All right,” she says, still pouting. “Don’t be too long.”

“Back before you know it,” he promises, and—because she’s still pouting, and he’s only human—leans down to kiss her swiftly. “Save a shower for me.”

“If you’re back early enough, we can share,” she suggests. She lies back against the lounge, all pale skin and soft curves and—

Yeah. He’s in hell.

“Sure thing,” he says, and—he’s man enough to admit it—flees the pool area with all due haste.

 

+++

 

Grant does six laps around the whole resort, stops by the gym for some weightlifting, showers in the locker room, and even hits the bar for a (virgin; he is on the clock here) margarita before going back to the room. He’s still not late enough to miss Simmons in a towel.

“Hey,” he says. “How was the sunbathing?”

“Frustrating,” she says, crossing her arms. “Are you incapable of taking a hint, _Grant_?”

Grant pauses. “Sorry?”

“We are alone,” she says, “in the _Bahamas_ , and your parents aren’t due to arrive for another three days. Do you truly think I’ve spent two weeks flirting with you for the sake of vacationing families who couldn’t care less about us?”

…Wait.

“Uh, yeah?” he asks. “It’s…kind of the point of undercover work.”

“I’m not an undercover agent,” Simmons reminds him.

“I know, but—”

“But _nothing_ ,” she interrupts. “I did not dress in my smallest bikini and ask you to apply my sunscreen so you’d spend hours avoiding me, Ward.”

Grant’s pretty sure he knows what she’s getting at—and if he’s right, he’s gonna be really annoyed at himself for not having this conversation at the beginning of the mission; that’s weeks of wasted self-control right there—but this isn’t an area where he wants any misunderstandings.

“What are you saying?”

In response, Simmons drops her towel. Grant nearly swallows his tongue.

“I’m saying,” she says, perfectly calmly, like she’s not standing totally naked in front of him, “that I would very much like to engage in casual sex for the duration of this mission. Assuming you’re amenable.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rougher than he means it to be. “I’m very amenable.”

This is a resort for the ridiculously wealthy, and their suite is accordingly huge. Grant still manages to close the distance between the dresser and the bed in four steps—and the moment he’s in reach, Simmons is dragging him down for a kiss that wipes every thought he’s ever had right out of his head.

That’s good, though; it gives him space for all the new things he needs to memorize—the drag of her nails through his hair, the taste of her strawberry lip balm (it’s been driving him fucking crazy watching her apply it three times a day, pouting at her reflection and making—leading, he realizes now—comments about how kissable she looks), the press of her breasts against his chest and fuck, _fuck_ —

“Are you sure?” he asks when they break apart to breathe. “Because if you’re not…if we do this and you regret it, it could screw the whole mission up.”

Simmons gives him a shove. It’s not enough to unbalance him, but, recognizing her intent, he drops down onto the bed anyway.

“I’m sure,” she promises, and crawls into his lap. “Are _you_?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” he says. “But really, the mission—”

“I’ve wanted you,” she says, framing his face between her hands, “for _months_ , Ward. Believe me when I say the only reason I could _possibly_ regret this is if you fail to satisfy me.”

And that—that right there is _it_. He can’t let that go unanswered, can he?

 

+++

 

Four orgasms (three for Simmons, one for him) later, he realizes she was probably trying to provoke him. He can’t regret that it worked, but still…

“That was rude,” he mutters into her neck.

Simmons shoves at his shoulder until he rolls over, then happily straddles him.

“So was walking around shirtless every day for the last two weeks,” she says pleasantly. “I have quite a bit of stockpiled sexual frustration thanks to you, you know.”

Grant’s about to counter that (she told him to put sunscreen on her and then spent the whole time _squirming and moaning_ , for fuck’s sake) but then she’s guiding him inside of her and all he can do is swear.

She’s always been pretty, but like this—loose hair curling sweetly over breasts reddened by the pass of his mouth, strong thighs squeezing his hips, delicate hands rubbing circles over his chest—like this she’s downright irresistible.

So he says, “I guess we should put it to good use, then,” instead and grips her hips as she rides him. He rubs at her clit and palms her breasts and pulls her down for a filthy kiss, does everything he can to break her rhythm, and when she comes, screaming, he rolls her over and fucks her through it.

It’s only after her next orgasm triggers his own—only after they’re back where they started, with him draped over her, totally spent, and her humming in smug satisfaction as she cards her fingers through his hair—only then does he admit, with the tiny fraction of his mind that’s not caught up in the sex/sunscreen/strawberry smell of her and the softness of her skin…

Maybe this mission’s not so bad after all.


End file.
